


maybe we will wake up to the silence of shoes at the foot of the bed not going anywhere

by Waistcoat35



Series: they slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered [16]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:15:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24902188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waistcoat35/pseuds/Waistcoat35
Summary: “It’s okay.  I couldn’t sleep anyway.”
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: they slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772770
Comments: 6
Kudos: 69





	maybe we will wake up to the silence of shoes at the foot of the bed not going anywhere

**Author's Note:**

> Mention of Richard having a nightmare to do with the war, so vague implied death & injury tw but nothing death-wise is mentioned and injury is not graphically described.

It's probably the heat that does it, in retrospect. It's been a hot summer so far - endless, boiling days, interspersed with the odd thunderstorm every week or so to break the tension in the humid air. Thomas is over again, and as much as they had enjoyed the heat earlier in the day (they'd taken advantage of it for a long stroll around St. James' park, balling their coats up to carry under their arms, and eventually the blazers underneath, giving him a glimpse of Thomas in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and the memory of his face scrunched as he tried to get ice cream off his chin) it's grown to be stifling. They'd lain awake for hours, first talking, and, once they were out of the energy for that, listening to the wireless in comfortable silence. It's so hot, in fact, that even Thomas had abandoned his usual habit of stealing Richard's flannel pyjamas and dispensed with the shirt part of them altogether, which, once again, Richard does not see as an issue. 

In the end the wireless had gone too, and they'd both tossed and turned for a while until, apparently, Richard had somehow managed to sink into sleep. 

In the dream, now, it's too hot - stifling heat that makes his uniform stick to his skin and feel even heavier than usual. The mud of the trenches has baked hard, and the swathe of bare earth stretching beyond their trench to the next one is so solid that the craters and crannies and deep-dug, frantic footprints are permanently etched in. There has been no action for days - both sides are lazy with the heat, incapable of energy, incapable even of much fear beyond a persistent, low-level, background static hum of anxiety dogging at their heels. If anyone tried to run through no-man's land, tripping in one of the rock-hard depressions in the earth would mean breaking something, most likely. He's spent some minutes gazing listlessly at the cloudless sky, watching a swallow loop and spiral, tracing paths more complex than his mother's needle and thread. 

That is, of course, when everything starts going wrong. Trust Richard not to pay attention when it matters - he will think this, the next time he is properly conscious, and he vows to never again pay less than his full attention, to be alert at all times to anything that could go awry. 

He wakes suddenly, a phantom pain lancing across his pack like the pattern of fissures in parched dirt. He jerks, the way Thomas does when he nods off too briefly and gets one of those dreams where he falls and hits the ground, jumps in Richard's arms. His intake of breath is short and sharp, and then he flops back down onto the pillow, gasping for breath even though he hasn't run anywhere. When he glances to his right to check if he's startled Thomas, he sees the familiar quiet gleam of a pair of eyes on him, watching cautiously.

"You alright?" Thomas asks, and thankfully it's free of anxiety - and thus doesn't make Richard worry too much more. It's not frantic, not harried - it's just a question. He manages to nod, breath somewhat regained.

"Yeah," he breathes, "right enough. Sorry if I woke you." Thomas shakes his head.

"You didn't, don't worry. I hadn't managed to drop off yet, you hadn't been asleep for that long." He reaches over with cool fingers, brushes a sweat-soaked curl from Richard's forehead, lets his digits play lightly over his jawbone. "Looked like you had a bit of a fright, hm?" So often Thomas is the frightened one, who Richard clings to and wraps around and holds tight until the shaking stops, but when it's Richard's turn to be so, Thomas is so calm - so light. He's not overbearing or absent, he doesn't coddle too much, nor is he too distant. He's just _there_ in exactly the right way - although having him there in any way suits, for Richard. He nods weakly.

"Something like it." 

"Glass of water?" It's barely more than a soft murmur, the wind from a swift's wings, the brush of a cat's tail against fabric, the low, distant churr of the nightjar. 

"Don't want to be a bother," Richard tries, although he knows it'll frustrate Thomas - he refuses to accept that Richard is being a bother at most times. 

"It's okay," he says, already shifting on the bed, bare ankle brushing Richard's as he slips down the cover and pulls himself upright. "I couldn't sleep anyway."

"What were you doing instead?" Richard asks.

"Watching to make sure you slept soundly." 

"Thanks," he murmurs, before Thomas leaves the room. He waits for him to come back, the static hum present in a different way to that of his dreams - this time it feels like company, constancy, someone to trust in on a summer night.


End file.
